


Fly, Fallen Leaf, and Rest on the Ground You Find

by Upupanyway



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, elektra and foggy fuck but like it's friendly sex not really romancey sex, esp in the first chapter, listen i know it's weird, probably bad characterization at times (bc i want them all to be soft!), talk about murder, this is like my most niche project ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/pseuds/Upupanyway
Summary: Elektra is back in New York for a job. Nelson, Murdock and Page get caught in the mess, too.Elektra hadn't always been the best to Foggy, but they can probably make a friendship work, right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just like, everyone in this is bisexual lol. don't worry about it.

Orchestral music swells and dips with a sensual intensity. Glasses clink and idle chatter breathes life throughout the large, open ballroom. Five hundred of the most influential people on this side of the hemisphere dance in mirthful celebration, swishing fabrics and clapping shoes in a joyous haze. Shiny-haired and pristine folk sit around finely clothed tables, sipping absinthe and partaking in cocaine, among other festivities.

It's a nothing event. A rich couple had eloped months ago in Guam and they absolutely had to have a second reception closer to home. Many had been invited by the couple, many more through other invitees. There are at least 20 who are suspected not to have been invited at all.

Foggy Nelson isn’t particularly rich. But he’s nothing if not  _ connected _ to the people of New York. If he had charmed a billionaire or two, it's his business. And if he finds himself occasionally swept up in the reveries, his back doesn't ache at that fact, either.

Right now, he finds himself in a dusk-lit corner, munching on the hors d'oeuvres.

"Hello, Franklin," Elektra greets, slithering her way into his space. She moves like artisanal honey: rich, decadent, with a darkness akin to something like vengeance or wrath. She oozes a dangerous sort of energy, and it might be captivating in some lights to the right sort of people. She doesn't smile, though a twinkle in her eyes betrays something warm, perhaps amusement or curiosity. She drinks from a shot glass of tequila and faces Foggy, back turned to the brilliant décor and shimmering lights of the ballroom. She boxes him in, even in this open space of natural light and breezy ceilings.

Foggy had never really gotten to know Elektra. She seemed always to be in the process of leaving. Sometimes with Matt. More often then not, it left Foggy alone in her wake. It’s a new sensation to be actively approached by her.

See, he used to hate her. Mostly for legitimate reasons, but also a few that weren't. He could see, even back in college, that she was the wrong sort of person to hang out with and he was certainly wary for Matt when the pair had gotten involved. But there was always something else about her that picked away at Foggy. Her effortless grace, the icy confidence in her strut. The way she'd wave a dismissive hand at him instead of saying hi.

It wasn't jealousy, per se, but a gut punch of all the childhood bullying he had tried to forget when he entered high school and beyond. She made his stomach churn at every moment of her presence and she did it expertly, in so few words. With the absence of words, sometimes.

Here, they're pretending to be friends at a large social function that Matt and Foggy had both somehow gotten invited to. And of course, Elektra also made the guest list.

Foggy had brought Karen as his plus one, and she was currently charming a gaggle of onlookers with some story or another. A thick cuban twirls between her delicate fingers. She's surprisingly good at parties.

Matt, on the other hand, is nowhere to be found, probably sneaking about one of the rooms upstairs. He had talked vaguely about needing some information on a bomb threat that is supposed to happen.

So Foggy grits his teeth and spares no time. “Why are you here?” he asks her, as casual as he can manage. He's trying with all his might not to sound rude, but he thinks he's probably failing.

She swirls her shot glass and shrugs. "I’m partying."

"No, what, if you don't mind me asking, are you doing back in town?" The tension in Foggy's shoulders doesn't ease. Foggy is failing basic social etiquette.

"Can't a girl just enjoy putting on heels and drinking for free?" She rolls her eyes, impatient. As she always seems to be with Foggy. "Would you like to dance with me?"

And Foggy wants badly to refuse. He's a horrible dancer, and the mood isn't right, and there's something about the intimate space of a dancefloor that doesn't appeal to him if it's going to be with Elektra.

Unfortunately, before he can get a word in, she makes him flinch by setting her glass deliberately on a platter that had just so happened to be passing by. Right next to Foggy's ear. The server makes her oblivious way through the crowd.

Foggy would speak, but her lithe hand is resting lightly on his shoulder now. The large, open space, lined with windows and chandeliers, casts something enchanting on her face as she smiles mischievously and drags him onto the floor.

And Foggy figures they can dance. At least they won't be talking. Elektra, always with a penchant for the dangerous, pulls Foggy rather close and guides his hands onto her hips and leads him through a lazy waltz. Foggy imagines the touches like some trap, and he anticipates the incoming jab.

"What's happening?" Foggy thinks to ask, once he's gathered enough mental energy.

"Hm." Elektra takes a moment to consider the situation. "I suppose you could know. See the man at my 5 o'clock? The one with the violet kerchief. He's got something in his jacket pocket that I need to make sure is there."

"Is it for a mercenary thing? Because I don't know if I can approve of that." Foggy frowns. How had his life become reigning in violent people?

"You're sweet," is all she says as she twirls herself in Foggy's limp arms. Covertly, she also dances the pair closer to the Violet Kerchief.

She waves grandly to get the man's attention, feigning starstruck shock. "Mr. Branbury?" She calls, pulling Foggy along by the hand. Foggy, in turn, feels an aneurysm coming on.

Branbury and the woman he's chatting with startle. She's at most half his age, her dark hair a luxurious cascade that expertly hides most of her features unless looked at head-on. Under her make up and glimmering jewelry, she looks very scared to be at the function. His heavy hand lands on the small of her back. Foggy gives her a sympathetic smile. She gives him a shy wave.

"Yes?" The man says, testily. Then, seeing Elektra's face, all cheekbones and sultry red lipstick, starts to soften. His eyes travel, rather unsubtly, downwards and takes in her form in the elegant wine coloured dress, her heels fatale in the exact same shade. "Oh, hello. Do I know you, sweetheart?"

Even to Foggy's eyes, her smile sharpens in the dimming evening light. The shift from natural light to artificial strips any warmth from her features.

"No, sir," she replies. "But I've heard of your work in Dubai and I must say, I've been quite impressed."

"Well, thank you, dear," he smiles, smugly. "Can I ask your name, then?" He sticks out a well-moisturized hand. Perhaps it’s just clammy.

"Natchios. Elektra Natchios." She takes the hand loosely, and lets the man kiss it. "Charmed."

Foggy, who hasn't been paying much attention to the interaction, finally turns to them when he's addressed by the esteemed Mr. Branbury. 

"And you are?"

Foggy hardly opens his mouth to speak.

"This is Franklin. I'm terribly sorry, but he's quite shy." Foggy fights the urge to simply walk away.

"Pleasure to meet you," Foggy grits. He gets a distinct twitch in his knuckles telling him to punch something.

The man lets out an ugly chortle. "Keep this one on a leash, eh, Frankie? She seems a bit wild, if you know what I mean." The man gives Foggy a friendly pat on the shoulder and Foggy fights the glower that wants to take his features.

Elektra, ostensibly undeterred, leans into Branbury and whispers something into his ear, grazing his smart suit jacket with her deft fingers along the way.

"Oh, very wild," the man amends, approvingly. "Franklin, you're a lucky man." Banbury walks away with a clap to Foggy's back and recedes into the crowd, seeming pleased with himself. The girl beside him follows.

Slowly, Foggy, turns to Elektra. "What was that?"

Without explanation, she holds up a gadget of some sort. It has three buttons on it. She tucks it away in the folds of her dress, which somehow does not look like it even has seams.

"What is  _ that _ ?"

"Remote detonator. Come along, Franklin, we have an idiot to find." She picks up her pace and heads for the door.

"What the hell is going on?" Foggy heats something confused and livid on his cheeks.

"No time to waste. Find Karen, she has some intel."

"Why does Karen know and not me?" Foggy's irritation bubbles.

"Because I trust her more than you," she explains, dismissively. They're almost out of the main room, now, and Elektra is typing her hair up.

"We've known each other for eight years, Elektra."

"Have we?" She turns back and gives him a playful wink. "I'll be on floor three. Find me in six minutes."

"Fuck," Foggy says as Elektra saunters out with a pep to her step that should be impossible in her shoes.

"Hop to it, darling," she calls behind her.

Foggy finds Karen lounging by the windows. She's nursing a deep amber scotch and petting a woman's hair affectionately.

"Hey, Karen," Foggy waves.

"Is it time?" She asks, still smiling. Foggy nods and she shifts off the other woman. "Sorry, Jen, I gotta go. I'm his plus one."

"Aw, alright." Jen pouts and gives Karen her business card. "Talk to you later sometime?"

"For sure." Foggy watches as Karen gives her a smile and tucks the card neatly in her dress. Somehow, in all their years of friendship, he hadn't imagined Karen having  _ game _ quite like this.

She takes up her spot beside Foggy and wraps a happy arm around his waist to steady her sloppy stride. Stepping amicably in time with him, she leans a head on his shoulder to whisper to him through the orchestra.

"Having fun?" he teases.

"Eh, it's been a while since I've been to one of these things," she shrugs.

"So what's up with Matt and Elektra?" Foggy asks, regrettably changing gears.

"They didn't say?"

"When do they ever tell me anything?"

"Aw, Foggy. Don't say it like that. They just think you're too sunny for their work." Foggy frowns. "Hey, as a rule, you're the least punch happy out of all of us." Foggy frowns deeper. Karen sighs. "Alright, Foggy. Here's the thing. There's this guy-"

"Branbury?" 

"Bingo. And he's been collecting women-"

"Sex trafficking?"

"A broad range of labour, but also not incorrect, probably. According to Matt, anyway. Apparently, he's got a bunch of bases worldwide. One of them's in New York."

"Why does he wanna blow us up?"

"Hm. Some of the richest and most influential people on the East Coast, all gathered here for the night, I wonder."

"Yeah, but specifically, what does he want to do? Aggravate a terror threat? Make investors flock to him? Merge businesses with these folks out of fear? What's his front?"

"Jewelry. Can't tell you about the rest of it, if I'm being honest."

Just then, Branbury spots them through the crowd and waves at him, making his way over with the same scared girl in his grip, the jewelry gleaming as ever, almost like a chandelier. Foggy scrunches his nose in what might be a smile, and what might be a scowl.

"Fuck, that's him," Foggy informs Karen.

"Shit."

"Franklin, hello!" He greets brightly. "You know, I didn't take you to be such a player." He eyes Karen, and Foggy holds her tighter, protective.

"Yeah, yeah," Foggy nods. "I'm sorry, but I gotta go meet the missus, now."

"The three of you having a little rendezvous?" He smiles at them, knowingly.

"Something like that," Karen smiles politely. "Well, we gotta get going. Bye." She all but yanks them away from the odious man. She leads them out the door and doesn't look back at him once.

-

It’s exactly six minutes later when they spot Elektra and Matt in the hallway of the third floor. They’re both clad in red and they’re both an eyesore, but Elektra is at least in a formal dress. Matt is just overkill with horns.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Foggy calls to them. In response, Matt holds up a tangle of wires and metal. He sees an attached clock and it dawns on Foggy that it’s the bomb. “Oh, perfect.”

“Okay,” Elektra sighs, a spot of blood on her cheek. Foggy wonders what she could have gotten into in the past six minutes that would have made her bloody. He thinks better of asking. Instead, he hands her a wad of napkins that he had kept from the finger food. She looks at him curiously for a split second, but takes it anyway. “That’s phase one done.”

“Phase  _ one _ ? What more is there?” Foggy asks instead.

“We’ve got to kill Branbury, Franklin,” Elektra answers with a coy little smirk. Foggy gapes, because, no there is no way anyone is going to die here tonight.

Matt sighs. “No, we’re not. We’re going to follow his trail and find a way to expose his business practices. Legally.”

“Couldn’t we just kill him? It’s so much easier. Besides, I’ve already received the down payment.” Elektra frowns, sheathing her sai underneath a strategic peplum. 

“No.”

“What’s his plan?” Foggy asks, genuinely curious. “Why was the bomb on the third floor?”

“It’s terrorism, Foggy. It doesn’t make sense. People invest when they’re scared. Keep up.” Elektra provides, snide as ever.

“No,” Foggy continues. “That doesn’t make sense. Yes, I get the terrorism, but this is a time bomb. With a clock. Hooked up to the gears, right? So what's the remote for? Why was the bomb so easy to find and disarm?”

“Easy?” Matt chokes out. “I had to get through eight armed guards for this piece of sh-”

“Alright, point still stands, what is the remote for?”

The silence is telling.

“It’s a fake out.” Karen breathes. And they make their way, running, down the stairs.

-

"Stay here,  _ Daredevil _ ," Elektra orders before they enter the party space. They don't want people scared.

"Daredevil doesn't get invited to parties?" Matt quips, but pauses anyway.

"No. Daredevil is a sad man without any friends." Elektra pats him on the cheek. "You'll know if we need you." She turns to Foggy and Karen. "Come on."

She leads them back into the fray and they stick close together. They look for their target.

He's in the middle of the crowd, fumbling for something in his exorbitantly expensive suit jacket and cursing quietly.

"Looking for something?" Elektra asks him, nonchalant, as the three of them make their way to him.

"No," he says sharply. "Well, actually. If you've seen something of mine, could you let me know, sweetheart? It's a small remote. It's uh, it's for my car." He concludes with a wry smile.

And even if they were to disregard the knowledge that they've been tracking the guy, it was a little insulting that he thought Elektra would buy that.

"Oh, it has nothing to do with the bomb we found on the third floor while we were… on the third floor?" Karen interrogates, slightly slurred. It's a bit of an impulsive move, to lay out their cards on the table like that, but Karen's a bit past tipsy and it does well to be direct at times.

"Of course not!" The man says. And that's also a stupid move. "I mean, what bomb?" The man visibly shrinks.

"Okay. You're really, really dumb." Karen observes. Another point in favour of Karen being a brazen drunk. "Who set you up? Who told you this was a good idea? Holy shit, were you just going to blow up a venue with a bunch of people inside? Including  _ yourself _ ?"

Branbury lunges forth suddenly, grabbing Karen by her shoulders.

"Shut the fuck up, woman," he hisses at her. She scrunches her face to his breath.

Another fraction of a second and Elektra is standing behind him, a sharp glimmer of a discreet knife where it would slice up his right kidney.

"I'd be careful with her if I were you." Elektra smiles politely and leads everyone somewhere a touch more intimate.

Five people shuffle into a tight lavatory made for one and at least one of them has weapons. The one holding a knife forces Branbury onto the toilet seat.

"So what's this?" Elektra asks, pulling out a remote detonator.

"You know what it is," Branbury spits.

"We know it's not for the third floor," Karen supplies, leaning on the sink.

Branbury doesn't say anything. He scowls a little.

"So I suppose it would be perfectly fine if I pressed this?" Elektra asks, thumbing the topmost button.

"I wouldn't, little lady. You don't know what you're messing with."

Elektra hums and throws the device to Karen, who miraculously catches it.

"That's true," Elektra muses. "But I don't think she's in the state to care much."

Foggy turns to the scared woman. She's pleading with her eyes. She's crying.

"Hold up!" Foggy exclaims. "Let's get  _ her _ to talk."

She shakes her head vigorously, apologetic.

"Good fucking luck. She doesn't have a larynx.” Branbury’s cocky, though he shouldn’t be.

"Jesus Christ, I'm so sorry," Foggy gasps. Elektra moves the knife close to Bradbury's throat. It feels deserved.

The woman motions to her lavish jewelry. She takes a deep sigh, bringing her hands together and crumpling down in pain. She makes a turning motion with her right hand. Like turning a key, opening a...

"Lock?" Foggy asks, grappling for the concept in his mind. He sticks his hand out, asking permission. Tentatively, he unclasps a bracelet and holds it in his hand. There's a mess of wires on the other side. "What…?"

Hurriedly, she undoes the clasp for her other wrist, and undoes her necklace as well, kicking them both as far away from herself as possible. They both land in a heap under the sink and the glimmering gems flicker and sizzle and sputter in proximity. The woman rubs at her wrists and at the jagged scar on her throat.

Karen punches Branbury in the face. It's clumsy, but his skin catches on the metal of her ring and draws blood anyway.

"You're a bastard," she snarls. "Tell us everything right now or you're going to die with your testicles between your teeth."

Even Elektra looks impressed.

They get the information. Branbury, working for a mining company working for an electronics manufacturer working for a tech developer working for Fisk. Blowing up a building and letting Fisk pay to build it back. Letting a woman mysteriously die and blaming terrorists. Third floor bomb, the tragedy of a young, dead woman. The goal was apparently never a mass murder. Still, it doesn’t make sense.

"I think Fisk's trying to run for mayor or some shit," Foggy concludes. "He hasn't pulled a stunt like this since he needed more power. It's very irresponsible to risk killing all these influential people, though. I have to dock points for that."

"No, Franklin," Elektra starts, incrementally shifting the knife closer to Branbury, nicking his neck. "He can just buy out the companies if the founders are dead. It's always a mad dash to find new management."

"But he could have killed any number of people! It's too broad a stroke. He's usually more calculated than this. I don’t know if it’s his doing."

Elektra shrugs and shoves the knife all the way through Branbury's throat. She's careful to avoid the arteries, saving them from the splattering blood. Instead, the slick blade makes its way cleanly through a vein and the warm blood dribbles down into Branbury's lap. She sneaks the detonator back into his jacket pocket.

"Holy shit, Elektra." Foggy says.

Karen vomits into the sink.

"Let's go find Matt," Elektra suggests, sheathing the knife in a secret compartment in her shoe and walking out of the cramped bathroom.

They make their way out, blending into the crowd as much as they can. The scared woman clings to them. Well, Foggy, mostly, as Karen is still out of it and Elektra just murdered a man. She's breathing more calmly, though. 

Foggy barely picks up a bottle of water for her when there's a shriek from behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micro makes an appearance!

It takes nearly half an hour, but by the time everyone has evacuated the building, Foggy, Karen, and Elektra find themselves in an alley, waiting for the Daredevil. They’re hidden by the shadows here, and it’s claustrophobic to boot. They're breathing in each other's air and it's making Foggy dizzy.

"Why did you kill him?" Foggy asks Elektra, testily.

"I had a job to do, Franklin," comes the simple retort. He wonders if she’s just naturally patronizing or if she makes a conscious effort to be like that.

"For whom?!"

"His wife, if you must know. She’d thought it better for her family and business if he were out of the picture. I think I agree, don’t you?"

Foggy seethes. One cannot simply play with human lives like that, no matter how repugnant the individual.

"That's beside the point!" he insists.

"No, that _is_ the point. It's as simple as-"

"You can't just go around killing people like-"

"The fact that he wasn't even a good person-"

"The law doesn't even matter! There's due process-"

"Okay!" Karen shouts, slumping onto a damp, dirty wall. "That's enough. Can you do this some other time?! I have a massive headache and all I taste is puke, so can we table this, get home and get some fucking rest?"

The Daredevil, ever the showman, picks the beat of silence to land neatly in their midst. It doesn’t do much to alleviate the tension.

"Hey, guys," Matt greets as he lands. “What did I miss?”

“We want to go home,” Karen says, lifting her arm like it’s a headcount.

“Okay,” Matt waves. “Noted.”

He turns to face Foggy and Elektra, who are still at each others’ throats. He clears his and starts to dump information on them. “So, here’s the recap: Branbury’s dead, and it was his wife who ordered the hit, there were bombs in a woman’s jewelry and the chandeliers in the dance hall, and we think Fisk wanted to try his hand at a mass Wall Street murder? Have I got everything?”

“Sounds about right, but we might want to put a pin on the Fisk thing.” Foggy reiterates, for what feels like too many times that night. “What were you up to, just now?”

“Well, I got some information, potentially. I found this on the guy’s keychain. Might come in handy.” Matt holds out a small flash drive. It looks complex, heavily protected with a hard metal exterior, black and smooth.

“We're sorting this out later, right? After some sleep and fluids?" Karen asks eagerly.

-

It's nearing morning and the four decide it's simply not worth it to pursue the case to the point of fatigue. So they all head back to Matt's place, neutral ground where everyone is familiar.

They plop down wherever they can for the night, which means that everyone ends up sleeping still half in their formal clothes. Karen and Elektra are sprawled out rather comfortably on Matt's bed. Foggy has the couch, and Matt is on the living room floor beside him, curled atop a huge pile of blankets and pillows. He hardly takes off his red suit, but he snores softly and steadily.

Foggy wakes up to the distinct feeling of being watched. Only, when he sits up and opens his bleary eyes, Elektra is sipping a glass of water and looking out the window.

The lights are going, casting strange figures onto her silhouette. She looks different, now, wrapped in one of Matt's huge sweaters, a pair of loose sweatpants around her waist. She looks human, now. Or maybe it's a trick of the light. It's always a trick of the light when Foggy sees her like this.

"Go back to sleep, Franklin," is all she says when she meets his gaze. She sets her glass down on the coffee table beside him, forcing their faces to find each other. And Foggy has to sort his shit out, because even in the dark, he catches it. Her humanity.

Her unwashed makeup is smudged all over her face. Her hurriedly wiped off lipstick is still a stain on her lips and mouth around it. There is a pool of dark mascara under her eyes. Her messy hair falls around her face, only half-kempt. Bloodshot weariness shakes her movement even through the dark echo of real light. Her expression remains unreadable. She's not exactly bare, and she's not pure, but she's not as pristine as every other time he had seen her. It's almost jarring to be able to trace the construction of _Elektra_ from Elektra.

"Good night," Foggy mumbles before falling back into the couch, pantsless and in an undershirt, a fleece blanket and suit jacket in a pile on top of him. It feels adequate. He feels adequate in her presence.

-

The glass of water remains there in the morning, a faint lipstick mark around the rim from where she drank it. Foggy wakes up earlier than the others and loads the dishwasher. Which is fine. Foggy picks up after everyone else makes a mess. It’s his job. He doesn’t throw any punches, or at least, he tries his best not to. He can do this part, at least. He does sometimes find himself hoping that no one would start a mess to begin with.

So the rest of them eventually amble awake. They fix toast or cereal or fruit yogurt, and Foggy remains seated on the sofa, Matt’s laptop in hand, crossing his fingers and wanting to destroy something.

Foggy tries to decipher the file, because these sorts of things are also his job. He might as well be useful in as many ways as he can be. Unfortunately, he's a lawyer, not a hacker, and the encryption is a meaningless conlang to him. Fortunately, Karen knows a guy.

-

They take a ridiculously expensive cab ride to an imprecise address, where Karen navigates in a slapdash sort of way. The driver nearly kicks them out for being awful patrons, but they tip heavily and the driver just sighs before leaving them stranded.

She leads them up to the suburban doorway and gives the doorbell a firm press.

A happy father type answers the door. He has a prim haircut and a clean shaven face. He seems like the kind of man who bakes cupcakes for his childrens’ backyard birthday parties.

“Fucking shit,” he says when Karen waves at him from his doorstep.

“Microchip! It’s been a while! Remember when you spied on me for months without my knowledge or consent?” Karen asks brightly. And wow, what an opener. Karen can cut deep and precise. “I have a favour to ask.”

He looks conflicted. “Alright,” Microchip finally cedes. “Come in.” He leads them into a nice-sized kitchen/dining room combo. It’s very nuclear family. Very white picket. There’s even a pie resting by the window.

“How are the wife and kids?” she asks, still chipper. She sits down easily on the table, resting her forearms towards the man. The three stragglers, all seeming quite confused at this interaction, also settle into the plush wooden chairs.

“At work and school, respectively. And don’t try anything with them. I already have my hands full when they ask about _Uncle Frank_.”

“Here by yourself, then?” Karen gives the man a mirthless smile. She’s too high on power. Or not sated. Maybe both. Very likely both if the cutting tease of her smile is any indication.

Microchip frowns even deeper, the lines setting like carved stone on his features.

He turns to the rest of the entourage. “Why are you here?” he demands. His voice breaks, though, and it loses some of the authority.

They’re all led to a stale, dark basement and they're told half-heartedly to make themselves at home. Micro tugs off his jumper, revealing a well-loved tank top. He does a few stretches in place before sitting down on a worn-leather seat in front of a magnificent set up consisting of three computers on five monitors and a small desk fan whirring away next to a utilitarian lamp. Micro transforms, in quick time, from a suburban everyman into the stereotype hacker from every movie. It's astonishing.

“Why does it smell like the _Punisher_ in here?” Matt asks into the room.

Micro dismisses him with a scowl. “None of your business.”

“And why does it smell like cu-”

“None. Of. Your. Business.”

Micro starts to type. As he does so, he manages to sigh close to a million times, and scrub his face very frequently.

They scatter across the room. Matt and Karen, who only know vaguely what's going on, look for a better picture of what kinds of deals all these loosely connected companies are working towards. Micro talks Foggy through how to read and sort through delicate, guarded files and lines of code in five languages because they somehow happen to be amalgamated here.

Micro and Foggy also complain loudly about the violent people in their lives. They get along swimmingly through gritted teeth, wry humour and shared trauma.

Elektra, for the past half decade hasn't really been on the internet much. Consequently, she does not have a robust base of knowledge when it comes to technological literacy and relegates herself to fidgeting on the stairs. She's in day clothes and a ponytail, something unimpressive that coerces suspicion away from her. Almost entirely non-threatening, but she twirls a small blade between her fingers to ruin the effect.

"Do you need something to do?" Foggy asks her when she catches his eye. She glares at him.

"Do you have anything for me to do, Franklin?"

Foggy thinks for a moment. Really, there are probably a million things to be done in the city. Not many are pertinent to the case, probably, but at this point, there are so many loose lines of connection the even he doesn't know where to start. And he has the mountain of decryption in front of him.

"Maybe you can check on the girl from yesterday? The one who was with Branbury the other day," Foggy suggests. "She should be at Metro Gen, I think?"

"Oh, sure. Perfect," Elektra says sarcastically. "Leave me to do the grunt work."

"It would put me at ease to know she's okay," Foggy argues.

"Then you ought to go!"

"I'm busy, Elektra!"

Micro cuts in. "Actually, I can send you a video of me doing this later, if you want. I mean, strictly speaking, you don't need to be present to be useful right now." He shrugs and gets back to typing. "Besides, I think you've got the basics of this down and I don't think you'll come across this level of codefucking ever again."

Elektra smiles sharply at Foggy.

Foggy sighs and picks up his coat.

-

When they get to the hospital, the woman is watching some television, crocheting something in fine green yarn.

"Hello!" Foggy says as he enters the room, a small bouquet of flowers in hand. "These are for you." He hands it over to her and she takes them, seeming both grateful and confused. It takes a moment, but he watches as she studies their faces and the spark of recognition ignites in her eyes.

Clamouring to her feet and off the bed, she takes them both in a deep hug. She opens her mouth excitedly to speak, but no words come out. Motioning to them to wait a moment, she takes out a small whiteboard and a dry erase marker. She uncaps the latter with a crisp pop and starts to say something.

In a clumsy alphabet, she draws the letters more than she writes them.

"Thank you," it reads. She takes Elektra's hand and gives it a grateful squeeze.

"You're welcome," Elektra replies, awkwardly.

"We were wondering if we could ask some questions?" Foggy intercedes.

She takes her pen again. "Ok. But English = not best."

"Any languages you prefer?" He asks slowly.

There's a list of many languages. It's amazing how little linguistic capacity the average American has. Arabic, Urdu, Hindi, and, miraculously, Punjabi.

"ਹਾਂ!" Foggy exclaims. "ਪੰਜਾਬੀ!"

The woman beams her shock and excitement.

The thing is, Foggy's Punjabi isn't all that great, but with the help of Google Translate and his own rudimentary skills they get a sense of her story.

Her name is Aidha. She was born in Pakistan and kidnapped by people working for Branbury when she was 12, and forced into jewelry making without pay. She didn't know where the manufacturing base she was taken to was located, but it was filled with other women of various ages in similar situations.

And then she was taken again and knocked out, and when she woke up, she was mute with three small bombs attached to her body.

Foggy is good at this part, the talking and the comfort. The warm assurance that these things won't happen again. He has the level-headed and protective veneer of a public servant determined to snuff out injustice. The empathy of a good man. It seems to work on Aidha.

Elektra listens quietly. Her face is stone as she takes in the story. When Aidha is finished, Elektra stands up, sharp and dark as anything.

"Franklin, let's go. I think we’re done here."

Foggy, taken aback by her suddenness and resolve, stands up inelegantly, muttering a quick, imprecisely pronounced goodbye to the woman. She smiles warmly at him. "Thank you." She writes again, showing it to the both of them. Then, she erases it with a bare palm, now blackened with marker after an hour of conversation. "Good luck. I wish best for you." She aims it pointedly at Elektra, who nods at her. 

"ਤੁਹਾਡੇ ਲਈ ਚੰਗੀ ਕਿਸਮਤ ਵੀ," Elektra offers before walking out of the room. Aidha beams. She waves goodbye to Foggy, who stumbles out after Elektra.

Foggy catches up to her.

"You speak Punjabi?" he asks, instead of questioning anything else.

"My father was an ambassador. I know many languages," she states simply.

"Why didn't you help me talk to her?" Foggy shifts uncomfortably at the notion that Elektra was testing him somehow.

Instead, she sighs and says stiffly, "I'm not so good at the talking thing. The comfort thing." She avoids his gaze and walks faster.

There's an implication there. That Foggy is. He chooses to read it that way, anyway. It's the closest thing to a genuine compliment he's gotten from her. He smiles to himself and quickens his steps to fall in line with Elektra. They don't speak to each other until they're back in the musty basement.

-

“Take that, you non-believers!” Foggy cheers nonsensically as soon as he’s through the door.

“What?” Matt asks as he eases his fingers off of his keyboard and removes his earbuds.

“Punjabi! She speaks Punjabi, so take that, Mr ‘your language credit is useless’!”

“Congratulations,” Matt says, and Foggy gets the distinct impression that he’s rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “Is she doing okay, though?”

“Yeah. I think so, at least. The nurses said she’s good to leave once she meets with a social worker. Plan for her future, and all that.”

“That’s good,” Karen hums. “Did you-”

“Offer to take up her case? Of course. I gave her our card and everything.”

“Wow,” Micro intercedes. “More to the point, I’ve found what was on the drive.”

Everyone turns to him expectantly.

“What do you make of this?” Micro asks, when they all gather to the screen.

“Hell if I know,” Matt shrugs.

Foggy sighs. “Matt,” he warns.

“Okay. But can we make this looming over evidence thing a little more accessible, please?”

“It’s a database with a bunch of random nouns on it. Nouns next to numbers,” Foggy starts, as Karen starts typing notes onto her laptop. “And there are columns with dollar amounts. And another column with a checkmark or an x on it.”

“A list of the workers, perhaps?” Karen supplies. “Pseudonyms?”

Elektra hums. “It’s a list of expenses. I recognize this one. Dahlia River. Checkmark. Number 1568-098. $1,980,000, $2,456,000, and $1,228,000. That’s my client.”

“How do you mean?” Karen asks.

“That’s the hit job. The last two payments went to me.”

-

“Her name is Eleanor Branbury. She has two kids, Gwyneth and William. Husband, deceased. As you know.”

“And he had this on him? How did he not know she was spending this amount on a literal hit on him?” Foggy questions, pacing.

“He’s very stupid, you have to understand. Had some very antiquated notions about women’s roles and budgeting. Frankly, I don’t blame her for hiring me, and I’m not very surprised he missed this. Either way, at least she’s being comprehensive with her business expenses,” Elektra shrugs.

“Where is she? We have to talk to her, right? Especially if she’s working under Fisk?” Foggy asks.

“She’s around, I think. She’s based in New York for the most part, actually.”

“Where?”

“Hell if I know. It might surprise you, but clients who hire me don’t generally go about spilling their personal details unless under the influence of some sort. She seemed nice, though.”

“She ordered a hit on her husband,” Foggy counters.

“You’ve met him. Wouldn’t you have?”

Foggy makes a face at her. Conflicted.

“So what now?” Karen asks, returning to her station. She has a stack of printed materials, pictures and references of Branbury in the news, the media, stock investment declarations, anything she could find. She rifles through them, taking out the relevant stories, the ones where his wife also mentioned. “There’s not a lot I found on her. I’m guessing she likes her life private?”

Elektra nods. “Yes. I should say so.”

Matt holds up a stack of his own. “I have a list of all the confirmed guests at the party the other night, and I’ve made note of any possible connections to Fisk, if that’s going to be our next point of inquiry.”

Elektra sighs. “That’ll take _ages_. Isn’t there something we can do quicker? Perhaps something involving my skill set in order to sort this out?”

Matt frowns at her and raises a scolding hand. “Stop trying to kill people.”

“You lawyers are all so slow!” Elektra huffs, deflating onto a couch that smells entirely too metallic and funky to be trusted.

Karen sighs and shares a meaningful glance with Micro. He nods in agreement.

“Yeah, don’t let her meet Frank. Got it.” He starts typing again.

-

Elektra gets bored easily. Foggy knows this from all his years knowing her, the brief interactions he had had with her. Brief because she was bored easily and she had thought Foggy was boring. Sure, she can be patient if she knows it’s for a cause, if she’s playing the role of a patient person, but that’s acting. If it’s like this, where the goals are nebulous and uncertain, she starts to pace and curse and tap her fingers on surfaces.

So Foggy’s a little surprised when, after a night of being out with Daredevil, punching answers out of people, she ends up knocking on Foggy’s window.

He’s a little surprised, but not a lot. Because despite everything, Foggy is her ex’s best friend and they do know each other. Despite everything, there’s a reluctant familiarity between them. He lets her in without a word, and she doesn’t open her mouth to speak, either. Instead, she walks confidently into his kitchen, and drinks some water. She cracks open a beer and microwaves some leftover Chinese take out before making to plop down on his sofa.

“Nope,” he says, not even looking up from his place on the dining table, still chipping away at an argument at 70 words per minute.

Elektra makes a disgruntled noise.

“You’re not going to get blood on my nice couch. Go wash up and change first, at the very least. And stop tracking mud and God-knows-what onto my floor. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to mop shit up because everyone I know has a fetish for violence and dirt.”

Elektra frowns, but sets her bounty down anyways. Foggy watches with crossed arms as she emphatically takes off her boots and sets them down on the shoe rack. She also saunters over to Foggy’s linens and towels, taking from a stack of “borrowables” he has set up for when friends spend the night. She struts into the bathroom and Foggy waits to hear the shower turn on. He continues to type.

She walks out in a haze of steam and heat, a towel wrapped around her hair and Foggy’s worn out sweater enveloping her comparatively tiny form. She has a stack of folded clothes and sets it down on the coffee table. She stares at Foggy for a few seconds. When he doesn’t look up, she finds the swiffer in the broom closet and starts cleaning up the floor.

When she finally sits back down and jams wooden chopsticks into her cold food, Foggy mutters out a curt “thank you” and neither of them acknowledge it.

He helps her set up his futon, and he finds her some warm sheets for the night. He even lets her wash her superhero costume in his washer. He does it with a sigh and a shrug, but he does it.

In the morning, all trace of her is gone. All but for a neat pile of folded up sweats on the folded up futon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, the implication is that Frank is fucking both the Liebermans, but mostly David. Oh and Frank takes it up the a


	3. Chapter 3

He’s exhausted. Foggy has been looking at databases and contracts and other dry documents in abstract legalese for the past few days and he’s starting to smell like stress-sweat as his baseline fragrance. At least, Matt tells him as much. But, he feels so close to a breakthrough. He almost has the full picture. The whole conspiracy. Fisk. The businesses. Branbury. A web of connected nodes, a stack of bricks, intricately masoned. He just needs to find the keystone and the picture is something legible, concrete. Something that makes  _ sense _ . He’s starting to see numbers when he closes his eyes.

"Franklin, you need a break," Elektra’s voice tells him. Foggy lifts his dry eyes from the screen to find that she's picked his lock again. She keeps hanging out at Foggy’s apartment instead of following Matt to his when they're finished punching people or whatever it is these rogue types do in their free time. He refuses to wrap his head around why.

Today, though, she's in civvies.  _ Decent  _ civvies. A tasteful sleeveless blouse and intricately pleated pants.

"No, I am  _ this _ close to figuring something out," Foggy whines, notes of irritation creeping into his voice. "Can this wait?"

"Nope. Take a shower, put on some clean clothes. I'm taking you somewhere."

Foggy's too tired to unpack  _ that _ , but he's being ushered out of his chair by a pair of strong hands and then he’s shoved into the bathroom.

When he gets out, there's a neat pile of clothes at the door.

The thing is, Foggy isn't particularly fashionable. Sure, he's got a distinct  _ style _ with his ties of funny patterns and colorful three pieces, but when he puts them on in a way that his gut tells him is right, it always looks a bit avant-garde. Which is a problem because, even though he's a New Yorker to boot, there aren't many that would describe him as avant-garde.

Elektra styles him in a sleek black tee (that Marci bought him), a breezy green sports blazer (that Matt had bought him) and a neutral pair of grey slacks (which he had gotten himself, thank you very much. Though it was Karen who convinced him to get it tailored). Even he has to admit that he looks pretty good like this.

"Maybe do something with your hair," Elektra suggests, holding out some pomade and a comb. It had been starting to grow back recently.

So they head out and Elektra stays pretty mum about their destination. It's infuriating how none of the people Foggy associates with understands the concept of communication. Still, he tags along to a fancy restaurant, where they have a reservation in a private room on the second floor, and it all feels very exclusive.

"I expect you to keep up," she tells him as they're led through the door.

The lighting is slightly dim and there's a figure already sipping white wine at the table. It takes a second, but Foggy recognizes her from blurry images he’d been looking at for the past few days.

"Honour to see you again, Mrs. Branbury," Elektra smiles and takes the seat immediately across from her. Foggy sits down slowly beside her. He really wishes people would tell him these things so he could prepare. Even other lawyers respect that sharing information is just good etiquette.

"What the fuck, Elektra?" he hisses at her. He smiles serenely to Branbury, who gives him a charming wave.

Branbury definitely does not give off the sort of vibe that would in any way indicate that she was capable of capping her husband. Her immaculate curls, graying from what was likely once a lovely dark brown, frame her sweet face, highlighting a bright smile outlined in pink lipstick.

"I'm Eleanor, it's very nice to meet you, dear," she greets warmly.

"I'm Franklin," he replies. "Most call me Foggy." He shakes her hand politely.

"Please, take a look at the menus. I recommend the seafood. It's very fresh. I always go for the cod, if it's available."

"Thank you, Eleanor," Elektra smiles.

Foggy takes the menu, which is a luxurious embossed cardstock. Just the one, sheet, unfolded, because it’s the type of menu that changes day by day. And none of the dishes have prices on them.

When an appropriate amount of time has been passed with idle chatter, and the orders have been taken by a waitstaff in fine clothing and trained to make themselves scarce, Eleanor sits up a little straighter and watches the pair for a while.

“So why did you call this meeting, Elektra?” she asks before taking a tidy bite of white fish.

Elektra swirls her glass of wine for a long moment, and takes a graceful sip between playful lips. “Follow-up, of course.” She sets down her glass. “Was everything to your satisfaction? Would you recommend me to a friend? That sort of thing.”

Eleanor laughs. “Of course. You were perfect, dear. It’s a pleasure to dine with you again.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, and, this is completely voluntary confidence, of course, what are your future plans?”

The woman thinks for a moment, bobs her head from side to side. “Take care of my children, mostly. I think I’m going to dissolve the business. Nasty practices and all, I think I’m going to have to put an end to it.”

“Very noble of you.” Elektra comments. Foggy watches, uselessly slurping up some fresh oysters and mignonette. She catches his eye in the dim light and gives him a raised brow.

Foggy does something stupid. “And the bombs?” he asks. Sharply, Eleanor turns to him.

“Alleged bombs,” she corrects. She lets out a breathy, unamused noise. “Are you accusing me of anything, Foggy?”

The man shrinks. Elektra glares at him. “Of course not. I was just wondering if you knew about them. I-er-we found a woman. He was with her and she-” Foggy flounders. He motions to his neck vaguely and hopes for the best.

“Oh, yes, I see.” They all let out a communal exhale of relief. “I suppose you see, then, why my husband had to be taken care of?”

Foggy nods, relieved. “He said some things to my friends, ma’am. He wasn’t a good sort of man.”

Eleanor smiles at him brightly. “This is a nice one,” she tells Elektra approvingly. Elektra nods in agreement, kicking Foggy under the table. He almost shrieks when her stiletto catches his foot.

“But I don’t think there were many good people at the party,” Foggy adds leadingly. He thinks he has something. He’s seeing the keystone now, and it’s almost solid now. He just needs something to confirm his suspicions. “They’re all rich folk who don’t care much about the little guy, aren’t they?”

Eleanor hums in agreement. “I know what you mean. I have some similar… impressions about them all. I think there’s a certain level of wealth that ought not be obtained.”

“And what will you do with yours?” Foggy asks. The woman seems unfazed.

“I’ll give it away, I think. It’s my husband’s blood money, anyway, and I want no part of it. Perhaps I’ll pay all the workers a decent enough compensation for everything they’ve gone through,” she muses. She’s too honest to be a criminal, Foggy decides.

“I mean, that doesn’t mean everyone else will want the same thing, right?” he continues. “People who want to accumulate wealth really want to do so on the backs of the labourer, right?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. It’s been disheartening, in my marriage, to have to go to all these events full of soulless people. But you, Foggy. I think you get it.” She reaches over the table and takes his hand from where it rests on the table. “I think you care.”

“I do, ma’am.” Foggy smiles at her. Despite everything, he thinks her heart is in the right place. Thank God her bombs didn’t work, though. “I’m a defense lawyer, actually.” There’s something about her demeanour that Foggy feels like he could trust. She smiles warmly at him, and Foggy fights a shiver. She was willing to kill five hundred people in a night.

“Well, if I ever need someone, I guess I know who to call.” Foggy smiles wider and nods. He feels sweat start to pool on the back of his neck.

The rest of the meal, all things considered, is rather nice.

By the end of the night, Eleanor’s clearly rather tipsy and loose-lipped.

“I’ll tell you what, Elektra, my dear. Never marry someone just because your parents think it’s a good idea,” she would say, and Elektra would smile politely at her. Or, “God, I wish they hadn't found his body so soon. I was  _ this _ close to blowing up all those filthy rich bastards,” she would slur, and her rage would come forth.

“Next time,” Elektra would assure her. And Eleanoor would pout and let herself be convinced.

Foggy finds himself in a bit of a tight spot and doesn’t say much.

-

In the cool night air, once they’ve said goodbye to Eleanor and helped her into a taxi, Elektra turns to Foggy.

“So what did you think?” she asks. She sounds genuinely curious, which is uncharacteristic of her.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your impression of the situation?”

“I think she thinks what she wants to do is right. That can be said about a lot of people who I disagree with,” Foggy comments.

“So you disagree?”

Foggy sighs consideringly as they walk around the block. They could just hail a cab or something, but the night air is just right, and neither of them make the move to leave. So, they follow the lazy evening foot traffic.

“I think that wealth does require some level of greed, and corruption is always a possibility-”

“Or inevitability.”

“Sure, or inevitability. But I don’t agree with people dying, full stop.”

“What if one person dying means a hundred, no, a thousand lives are being saved from suffering?”

“Still, someone can be taken down without dying,” Foggy counters.

“Isn’t it easier, though? One death, and now a business goes to someone who cares about the people. Imagine that five hundredfold.”

“There’s no guarantee of that happening. It could go to someone just as greedy. Hell, _ Fisk _ could have taken everything. They’re all owned by him, anyway. Eleanor is, strictly speaking, also owned by Fisk.”

“But she wasn’t soulless. And she was a competitor. Didn’t you read her well enough? She’s not driven by profit. If all those top dogs got nipped, she would have spent every cent she had taking them all and taking them all down.”

Foggy sighs again, suddenly very tired.

“Speculation at best,” he has to say. “Do you care? About all this morality, I mean.”

Elektra bobs her head consideringly, side to side. “I did go to school with you, you know. I have thought at least a bit about how this world functions.”

“But do you  _ care _ ?” Foggy asks again, more definitive this time.

Elektra looks at him for a long moment, and for a second, she looks pained. But her microexpressions smooth out before he can really grasp the expression in the haunting streetlight.

“No,” she says, and it sounds halfway honest. “I like my job. I like the power it gives me. Sometimes, I like to think it’s necessary. If I can do it for a good cause, then perhaps I’m not so evil, or something to that effect.’

“And it weighs on you? Whether you’re doing the right thing?”

There’s a pause. “Not at the end of the day, but I don’t think anyone likes to think of themselves as  _ evil _ .” She hails an empty cab and gets in without a goodbye.

Foggy takes the subway back home.

-

Once he’s through the door, he calls Matt’s burner. He picks up with a grunt.

“New working theory,” Foggy says without greeting. He shifts out of his sports coat and loafers. “Branbury’s wife was trying to frame him for the bombs. She wanted the detonator found on his body. She hired Elektra to make sure he didn’t run away when the explosions happened.”

“Okay-”

“I think she’s angry that everyone left when his body was found. She really wanted to kill everyone, actually. It wasn’t just an empty threat.”

“Foggy-”

“But she’s doing it because she hates rich people and all the shitty things they do to poor people. I don’t know, man. It’s just when I start to feel like I know things, Elektra shows up at my door and asks me out on a weird meeting with her client and I don’t even know  _ why _ -”

“Foggy!” Matt pleads. “Calm down, buddy. We’re going to meet up tomorrow. You can explain everything then. I’m going to go out with Elektra and see if there’s anything else we can find out.”

“No,” Foggy breathes, riled up from all the night’s revelations. “Don’t bother. It was Eleanor Branbury, and Fisk is only tangentially involved. She’s masterminding this. She’s why everything was so clumsy, because she’s not used to being a criminal. That’s just it, Matt. You can’t beat her up like everyone else.”

“Why? Because she seems like a nice old woman? She tried to kill five hundred people last week. In case you forgot,” Matt argues. He seems annoyed. As if the morality of this is easy. As if he’s not really thinking about the global implications.

“But she had a reason. She doesn’t like how they’re subjecting people into oppressive situations. Like, think of the millions she’s saving by killing five hundred, Matt.”

“Do you even believe yourself right now?” Matt questions, disbelieving.

“No, Matt. I don’t. It’s just another person deciding for themselves where morality stands and what justice means. That’s also you. We need to talk about these things, first. Can we do that, Matt? Can we talk before you start throwing blunt instruments at people’s heads?”

Matt sighs deeply on the other end. He hears a zipper and a thud. A costume being put away “Fine. But this better be worth it.”

“It will be. I’ll explain everything tomorrow, I promise. Just get some sleep until then? Like some actual decent sleep? For once in your goddamn life?” Foggy requests. He can practically hear Matt soften.

“Alright. Will do. While we’re here, did you want to say something? You never call this late.”

Foggy sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. I’m really sorry, but can I just say, I might like Elektra now?” It’s probably the wine talking, but the words are out there. It feels weird, and he doesn’t know what to do about them. It's honest though, and it had felt like Matt should know.

There's a beat. Some static. “What?!” Matt asks on the other end of the line. “Foggy, what do you mean, ‘like’? As in, she’s a friend now? More? Did you guys do something? Was there kissing involved? Foggy-” Foggy ends the call with a sigh. It’s a bit of a dick move, leaving his best friend like that. Especially immediately following a shitty confession about that best friend’s ex-girlfriend. It would be a shitty thing even without context.

And with context, the context where that ex kills people, it might just gravitate towards insanely stupid. But his head hurts and he doesn’t want to qualify that “like.” He wants to let it hang there, ambiguous.

He grapples in the ambiguity. He can’t even explain it at this point. Just a cloud of points. Elektra, human being. Elektra, opinionated about things. Elektra, angry at heart, but other things as well. Elektra, who thinks about morality. Elektra, who does not want to be evil. Foggy can understand that. He feels it himself, all the time.

Like, he knows that there are times when the people he defends have really hurt people. He knows that they feel justified in their actions, and that they may even truly been repentant. Either way, they had caused irreconcilable harm. People have died. Businesses burned down. Livelihoods upturned. And Foggy had defended them, anyway. Who was he to bar himself from feeling empathy towards Elektra as well? Elektra, who is a person under it all.

Who’s to say any of that is better or worse than what Elektra does? Whose right is it to put value on a life? Who gets to weigh suffering against survival? And worse yet, what qualifies just reason to murder, and where does weaponized will come into the picture of evil intent?

Foggy hates being a lawyer sometimes. He hates his background in criminal psychology and logics and sociology. There are too many strings to consider. If evil exists, where is it? How can it be operationalized?

Things had been easier when killing just seemed inherently wrong.

There’s a knock on his window and it opens before Foggy can even get up from his bed. He only needs a glimpse to know who it is.

“Elektra. I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“I heard something from the grapevine.”

“Matt tell you?” Foggy fights a headache coming on.

“I was in the room with him. You were on speaker.”

“Well, fuck.” Foggy shrinks in on himself. He buries his face in a pillow. Carefully, firmly, it’s pushed away.

“Did you mean it?” Elektra asks. There’s something in her eyes now, obscured by the darkness of Foggy’s room, that seems tentatively hopeful.

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes. “I think so.”

Elektra scrunches up her face in confusion. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Foggy answers, honestly.

She scoffs. “Wrong answer." She turns to leave.

“Wait!” Foggy calls, finally sitting up on the mattress. She does, but she doesn’t turn around. “Want to talk about things, maybe?”

Slowly, Elektra nods, then stops herself, dislodges a thought with a shake of her head. “We’re very different people. You don’t want to know me, Franklin.”

“Try me,” he challenges, bringing his knees up to his chin. He tries to see her through the shadows.

Wordlessly, she walks back to the bed and folds herself neatly at the foot. A sliver of moonlight illuminates her face, and her features glow; sallow, haunting, and pale, but she glows.

“Where should I even begin?” She sighs, arms folded.

“Maybe at the beginning? I’ve heard it’s a very good place to start.”

Elektra smiles sweetly at him, and it feels pretty genuine. “That was terrible.”

He smiles back. “Now I know you’ve seen the Sound of Music. Maybe you do have a soul, after all.”

She gives him a punch to the shin, but it’s light and friendly. A new gesture. It’s not as awkward as it could have been.

She takes a breath and start narrating her life. “Okay, but it’s a long story. If you're up for it."

"Go for it. We have the night."

-

When Foggy wakes up, he finds Elektra still at the foot of his bed, sleeping, curled up in a ball. She’s still wearing her combat uniform, rumpled as it must be, and it doesn’t look too comfortable. Foggy hops off the bed and lays down his softest things for her. A t-shirt that Karen had left at Foggy’s and promptly forgotten about. Heavy, quality cotton. Green. A pair of sweatpants that used to belong to Matt but has been in the back of the “borrowables” because it was chevron and far too colourful for his taste. Still, Matt has an impeccable taste in fabric. Foggy decides that Elektra deserves some comfort.

When Elektra makes her way into the living space, that's what she's wearing.

"Morning," she grumbles as she shuffles around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, looking for a bowl.

"Second from the right," he tells her, scooping up some of his cereal, scrolling through the news on his phone with the other hand.

"Hm," comes the mumbled reply.

She eats the cereal slowly, as if meditating. She gets two mouthful in before she starts to complain. "How do you eat this? It's all sugar."

"Sugar makes things tasty."

"It's sickening," she says, but she doesn't stop shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth. She even drinks the milk at the bottom.

"I'm heading to work in a half hour," Foggy states, getting up from his seat. "Are you tagging along?"

"Of course."

Foggy waits for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tender


	4. Chapter 4

They're all seated in the meeting room. Elektra and Foggy stumble around each other explaining the whole situation with Eleanor Branbury. It comes out in bursts, alternating quick and clumsy, measured and pointed. They get to the end of it, though. They edit a few details of where they ended up.

"What do we do about her, then?" Karen asks, because Karen is astute and it is the most pressing issue. "It's not like we can beat her up to change her mind, and it's not like we can make her confess without also implicating Elektra. And that's bad because we like her, right?"

Elektra smiles sharply.

"She wasn't even at the party, so she has an alibi" Karen continues, folding her arms on the table in front of her. "And the detonator was found in Branbury's jacket. They still don't know how he died but Aidha refuses to rat you guys out. And it's not like the Lady Branbury is eager to pursue the case. We’re at a standstill, but if we can just convince her not to kill people, we should be in the clear, right? No harm done except to the guy Elektra stabbed in the throat."

"Are people worried about it?" Foggy asks. He is genuinely concerned about the landscape and any potential hardships Elektra might face because of this. "Branbury's death, I mean." And the crew can't operate if there are going to be eyes on them.

"Not that I've heard," Matt replies. "Most people in the city, especially higher up, are connected to Fisk in some way or another. He's background noise. I don't think Fisk is even conscious of how he's implicated here. If he is, he hasn't made any moves to do anything about it." Matt scratches at his chin, then crosses his arms. “Not that I’ve been able to catch wind of, anyway.”

"And I haven't been getting any stories about this either." Karen adds. "The murder sure, but not about any malpractice on the part of business owners as of late." Karen rests her head on the table, tired and antsy in the way one gets when they look at the same thing for far too long. Like they start noticing faces in the ink. "These deals take time, though. If Eleanor is going to buy everyone out, it'll take months to reach the public eye, so how would we even know until it’s too late?"

"Can she do it, though? Can she just buy everyone out?" Foggy muses.

"Well," Karen continues. "Not exactly. But because of the structure of these things, everything's kind of related. She only needs to deal with a handful of owners. I still can't decipher all of the names in the file, but even doing some quick math and a few cross references to stock markets she's not exactly uninfluential."

"And if she usurps Fisk, she’s just another kingpin with a vision,” Elektra concludes. “Another Machiavellian capitalist regardless of her personal morals.” She sighs. “Pity. She has excellent taste in wine.”

Elektra starts to stand up. “Well, I’ve finished my job and the payment has gone through. If you bleeding hearts need anything, I’m only here until next Sunday.”

-

Foggy is in his office, dozing at his desk. The sun has long set and the night sirens of Hell’s Kitchen ring sharply, muffled with distance.

A gloved hand pats him on the cheek and Foggy startles awake. When he regains focus, he’s met with a pair of red eye holes.

“Karen’s talking to her.” Matt informs him.

“Who? What’s going on?” Foggy asks, voice gruff with sleep.

“Eleanor. The Lady Branbury. Karen insisted on direct action, and Elektra complied, I guess. They should be almost done by now, but I figured you’d want to know.”

“She won’t be satisfied with anything Karen says,” Foggy tells him, shaking the sleep from his shoulders. “She wants to snuff out greed at its root. She’ll never be satisfied with just being humaine. I think she kinda likes the idea of power but can’t see the hypocrisy.”

Matt frowns, but the rest of his face doesn’t follow under the mask. He sits down across from Foggy in a weary, weary movement. Foggy starts to think out loud.

“I don’t know if she’s evil or whatever, but she’s not a criminal at heart. Have you seen her work? It’s sloppy as hell. She’d have more success doing things legally. But she doesn’t want to do things legally.”

“So we can’t just convince her somehow?” Matt’s starting to sound frustrated.

“You know how it plays out when people get questioned about their core beliefs. Especially volatile ones. That goes double for people who are willing to hire trigger-happy folk. I don’t know if I want to play around with our lives like that.”

Matt considers the information for a long moment. “Should I escort you home?” he offers, finally.

-

Matt is antsy the whole way back. Foggy can see it from stories down as Matt jumps along the rooftops towards Foggy’s apartment. The angle of his shoulders, the reservations in his steps. Something off.

Foggy gets it the moment he swings his door open to the smell of blood.

Elektra is picking through Foggy’s first aid kit, a cautious hand on the mess in front of her. Karen is passed out on his couch.

“What happened?” Foggy asks before greeting.

“Eleanor’s bodyguard. She didn’t like it when Karen suggested a different course of action,” Elektra answers simply, if a little quick. Foggy frowns at the bruising at Karen’s throat, the gash on her chest, the cut on her head, matting her hair. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. Has Karen ever told you she killed someone?”

“Yes.”

“She’s a fighter. Quite impressive. She’s got balls, Franklin. She’s going to pull through.” The quickness spills over into panic.

“Elektra,” Foggy starts to quiet her. He moves a hand to her shoulder.

“Frankly, you should take better care of her. Where was Matthew when Karen got tased? He can’t even look after his friend and he thinks he can control this city?” Fear. Bitterness. Maybe a tear or two. She doesn’t know how to use his tools.

“Elektra, I think you might be panicking a little. Do you want to take a breather?”

She pauses for a few seconds, her hands slowing on Karen’s still form. Foggy takes her place as she moves to sit somewhere else. Anywhere else. Foggy puts on some gloves while Matt sneaks off fetch some fresh warm water.

“I’ve never done anything like this before. Not with a civilian, anyway. Is it always this terrifying trying to have people not die?”

“It is when you’re looking after friends,” he tells her calmly. He shuffles through his instruments and finds the medical towels. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen.”

Foggy takes care of Karen. He’s only vaguely aware of Matt as he shucks off his mask and gloves and heads back to the kitchen to fix them all some tea. Elektra just watches them all in a stupor.

When Foggy finally sits back, Matt’s already there with a warm cup in his hand. Foggy thanks him, taking the ceramic in still-bloody hands and taking a long, steadying sip.

“This is weird,” Elektra says. “You guys are all so gentle with each other. Doesn’t it get exhausting?”

“No,” Foggy answers immediately, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “They’re my friends. It’s a pleasure to take care of them.” He says it pointedly. He wants Elektra to know that it’s okay to take care and be taken care of. “Isn’t that right, Matty?”

“Sure.” Matt shrugs, but he also has a warm smile on his face.

“Disgusting.”

“We’re just people,” Foggy says, shifting his bangs out of his face and smearing some blood on his forehead. “It’s okay to let yourself be a person.”

Elektra frowns and doesn’t say anything. She does stare, though. She stares at Foggy. At the red on his nicely pressed suit, at the softness of his expression. Foggy doesn’t know what she sees, but he lets his gaze rest on her, too.

Loudly, Matt sets his mug down, breaking up the moment.

“Foggy, can I talk to you for a moment?” Matt demands, manhandling the other man into his bedroom and shutting the door firmly behind them. “Foggy, do you actually like her?” Matt asks in a hushed attack.

“I think I do, Matt,” Foggy admits. “Sorry, buddy. I know it’s not cool, and I won’t make a move on your ex or anything if you don’t want-”

Matt shushes him with a hand. “I don’t care about that. You’re your own people. We were a long time ago. I’m over it. But she’s not the type to stay or commit. Oh, and she kills people as a living.”

“I know, man. I’m not going to do anything about it. But I think she deserves some humanity, you know? If we can actually be friends she can come back to every once in a while, wouldn’t that be nice?”

Matt sighs. “You’re _ too _ nice, Foggy. Not everyone is worth that.”

“You say the same shit about yourself, but I’m still here with you, buddy. Can’t persuade me out of thinking you’re a decent enough guy to be worth my time. Oh, and truly shitty to say Elektra isn’t worth my kindness.”

Matt frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, it’s not your job to take in all these strays. You need to take care of yourself, too.” He reaches out, catching one of Foggy’s hands. Wet latex. “I know you didn’t ask for any of this when you became my friend. I don’t want Elektra to drag you into it further. She’s more intense than I am, you know.”

“I’ll keep a level head,” Foggy assures him, bumping their foreheads together. Matt continues to frown into his direction. Elektra knocks on the door.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Foggy mock-glares at her and gives Matt a peck on the lips to make a point. He hears Matt chuckle a little before pulling away. “Yes,” Foggy answers. “Stop intruding in on my life, Elektra. It’s rude.”

“Well, she’s awake, if anyone cares,” Elektra informs them confusedly as she walks away and back to the living room.

-

Thursday morning, Elektra is still in New York. She’s in Foggy’s office, reading legal journals and writing her own notes in the margins, when someone walks in.

“Oh! Hello!” Karen greets her at reception. “Oh! It’s you! How are you? Aidha, right?” 

Elektra, quick on the uptake, shoots up from her seat and makes her way to the front desk.

“ਹੈਲੋ,” she says. “ مرحبا!”

The woman’s face lights up and she lets herself be ushered into the meeting room.

Elektra takes on the translating job this time. She’s better at it, much to Foggy’s chagrin and Karen’s amusement.

Turns out, though, it’s more of a social meeting than anything else. She drops off a lovely bag of homemade sweets and a few crocheted scarves in vivid colours. She tells them that she’s been learning sign language and that she’s been enrolled in English courses. She has no home to go back to, but she can stay in America for the time being. She thanks them profusely and tells them that, more than anything, she just wants to move on with her life.

“Well, that was sweet of her,” Karen comments as she guides some halwa into her mouth.

“Not very useful, though, was it?” Elektra adds. “She’s not going to pursue- what is it you folks love so much? ‘Justice’?” She shifts through the pile of scarves. Mustard yellow, deep maroon, royal purple, forest green. She wraps the green around herself, elegantly, like a shawl.

“Well, she seems at peace,” Matt says. “That’s the best we can really hope for.” Foggy thinks he looks like he’s already typing up disability resource referrals in his brain.

“And what’s the best case scenario in general? With Eleanor?” Elektra asks, sitting back down gracelessly.

“That’s like asking an undergrad what to do about capitalism,” Foggy frowns. “Where do we even start?”

Elektra spins on her chair from side to side. “More talking, then, I take it? Would Daredevil like a chat with her, too?”

-

Daredevil does talk to her. And he fights off the bodyguards. Thankfully, he’s unscathed. Matt relays the story in full from Foggy’s windowsill at buttfuck o’clock.

“She’s thinking of doing a retry at the next big event, which is in two months’ time. In  _ Toronto _ ,” Matt despairs.

“That’s a little ways out of your jurisdiction, Mr. Devil of Hell’s Kitchen,” Foggy agrees. “Are you thinking we should go?”

“No, no. We can sort it out here by then, I think.” Then a beat. “Should we let Elektra try? I think she’s surprisingly not so bloodthirsty these days.”

“If it’s of her own volition. It’s not like we can force her into anything in any meaningful way. She’s very much her own agent. Besides, she’s not going to listen to us.”

“Actually, she might listen to you, if you told her to.”

“Do you reckon?”

Matt leans into the windy night sky. “Honestly, it’s about fifty-fifty, which is more than can be said about anyone else. What did you do to her? It’s amazing.”

Foggy considers this, because he hadn’t really done anything. “I listened to her.”

“Ah. Yeah, I get why she would appreciate you.”

-

“I’m brilliant!” Elektra exclaims as she enters Foggy’s apartment, a few luxurious paper bags in hand. “I’ve convinced her to stop killing people.”

“What?!” Foggy interjects, impressed. He looks up from his couch, where he had been watching some meaningless and wildly inaccurate courtroom drama. “How?!”

“You wouldn’t like it, Franklin, but the deed is done. We should celebrate that.”

“Elektra-”

“Okay, I killed her guard in front of her.” She waves a silencing hand before Foggy can protest. “I didn’t set out to do it, but I went to talk to her by myself, and she was getting quite frustrated at me. She was angry that I kept bringing in people to tell her to stop doing her thing. She says you were her favourite, by the way. She called you ‘the polite one’.”

“But the guard?” Foggy prompts. “What happened with the guard?” He’s sitting up, now, but not moving closer to Elektra.

“I killed him. She called me a hypocrite and sicced him on me. So I just stabbed him in the eye.

“But  _ then _ , and I learned this from you, I turned it into a teaching moment. I made up some cock-and-bull about the guard’s family and prospects, and that, even if I wasn’t the greatest fan, that the man must have had some people who loved him. I told her that killing must be calculated and that life is precious or some bullshit like that. And I let her watch the life bleed out of him, and I think she felt it. I think she bought the reasoning.”

“What do you mean? Life  _ is _ precious!” 

“Okay, sure. But then I told her that bombs are irresponsible because people like  _ you _ could be caught in the crossfire, and that it’s better to work through things without violence. I actually said that. As if I actually had morals or something,” Elektra laughs.

“Well do you?” Foggy asks her. He’s trying to catch his breath.

“What do you mean?” she counters, taken aback.

“Do you have morals? Anything telling you what things are bad and which are good?”

She frowns at him. “I thought we were past this, Franklin. I can’t have morals. Not with the life I live. It’d destroy me if I had  _ morals _ .”

“But you do, right? It’s not all just a vengeance quest for you? It’s not even driven by justice, but there must be cases even you won’t take on, right?”

“I just wanted you to be proud of me,” Elektra pouts. She moves over to the coffee table sets down her bags, and sits to face Foggy. “Don’t dampen my victory.”

“No, I’m not trying to. I just wanted to know. Do you have any principles you stick to?”

“Not particularly. But I figure if someone wants you dead, you’re probably not the best person. So it’s not like I have qualms about my work.”

“Outside of your job, though? Anything?”

Elektra frowns at him, searching for something in his eyes, before resigning herself. “This is going to sound sappy, but do I think everything is case by case. As long as people care, there isn’t much wrong you can do.” She shrugs, because maybe she hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.

Foggy is awed by her, and he makes sure to catch her eyes. “Elektra, you’re so fascinating.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I mean it. Just really buttfuck weird.”

“If you’re just going to mock me, I can leave.”

“It’s a good thing,” Foggy corrects. “I think it means you care, right? You have to, because I don’t think you’re evil.”

“Don’t you?” Elektra narrows her eyes at him, untrusting, guarded. “I’ve done a lot of shit you wouldn’t care for, and I’ve enjoyed it a lot.”

“But you haven’t left yet. I mean, you stayed until you saw this through, right? So you care about the case?”

“I stayed because you wanted me to,” she tells him, simply. “The collective you. The whole business card bunch of you.”

“Because we’re friends?” Foggy smiles, slowly, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure, we’re friends. Congratulations, Franklin. Yes, I have emotions. Bravissimo, darling, you’ve figured it out.” She spits out the words like fire.

Foggy grins at her, brightly. “Well, I mean, at the end of the day, you got through to Eleanor, and none of the rest of us did. So I guess congratulations are in order for you as well.”

“But you don’t approve of my methods, do you?”

“Of course not, but hey, you just saved five hundred lives at the very least, and potentially a lot of suffering depending on how the next few months go. And hey, I have her contact information and a few good corporate lawyers I trust. I’m sure this is probably the best case scenario. So thank you for bringing your expertise to the table.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Elektra reaches for her bags. “On the topic of celebration, I have some champagne and chocolate strawberries, if you’d care to partake.”

“Sure, let me call in the partners, and we can get a round of drunken antics started.” Foggy reaches for his phone, but is met with a meaningful look and a subtle shake of the head. “Oh.  _ Oh. _ ” A flustered smile creeps its way onto Foggy’s features. “Are you trying to seduce me?” He laughs nervously.

Elektra’s face sours at the sound. “If that’s off the table, I could just leave.”

“No, no,” Foggy tells her, reaching over to take her hand. “It’s a good laugh. Like, if you had told me, freshman year that I’d ever get  _ the  _ Elektra Natchios in my home, propositioning  _ me _ , I’d have probably punched you.”

“A lot has changed since then, hasn’t it?” She lets herself smile into the heady, comfortable feeling. Foggy nods, understandingly. “If you had told me back then, that I’d grow to like you, let alone be doing  _ this _ , I’d have ripped your throat out by the tongue.”

“Thanks,” Foggy deadpans.

“Sorry, did I ruin the mood? You were just trying to tell me how attractive I was, right?”

Foggy laughs again. “Yeah, I was. But I mean, you were also really dismissive of me back then, I guess. Never really took me seriously. You’re taking me seriously now, right? This isn’t some elaborate bullying tactic?”

Elektra moves to sit on his lap. “No, I don’t think it is. Is this okay?” she asks, moving Foggy’s hair out of his eyes.

“Of course.”

She kisses him for a moment, and Foggy lets the softness linger. He knows, unequivocally, that Elektra will ask for edges and sharpness and bruises. That will come later. He just lets himself revel in all things gentle and loving here and now. He thinks she deserves some of that in her life. He wants to offer it up as an option, at least. If she wants something else, he’ll oblige, but he doesn’t want Elektra to leave thinking she doesn’t deserve that vulnerable kind of love, too, if she wants it.

“You’re full of surprises, Franklin,” she comments, more breathless than he’d ever heard from her. He scrunches up his face at her.

“You can’t call me ‘Franklin’ if we’re going to fuck. That’s disgusting.”

She laughs. Cheery, not derisive. Something else that’s new from her. “That’s your name,  _ Franklin _ .”

He rolls his eyes. He thinks it’s a decent enough request. Not too belabouring. “Elektra, please-”

“ _ Foggy _ ,” she whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth. It sounds difficult for her. Something about the intimacy of a nickname that claws at her throat. Foggy is grateful for her effort. It only took them eight years. “Foggy Nelson. Are you happy?”

“Yeah. I guess I am.” Foggy finds that it’s honest.


	5. Chapter 5

Elektra can be soft, Foggy realizes. She can be lingering gazes and whispered promises and holding hands and gentle kisses post-climax. And she can be hair pulling and back scratching and slapping and biting, and  _ biting _ , too. She’s a bit of a storm, and Foggy’s glad he could see her, eye to eye, amidst the chaos.

“You know I can’t stay,” she tells him, clearing up the champagne flutes.

“I figured as much.” Foggy sinks down into his couch. He was never hopeful that this would become anything more than it is here, at this moment. It's nice while it lasts, though. “So what are your plans now?”

Elektra hums as she makes her way back to him. She takes the last strawberry from the tray and twirls it around a little before biting it, sweet and red. “I have a few things to take care of in Spain for the foreseeable future." She tells him. Foggy can see how much she debates telling him about it. "You could come with if you’d like. Take a short vacation or something. Lord knows you need it if the state of your spine is any indication.” She stretches out in Foggy’s old Columbia sweater, resting her feet on the coffee table. It doesn’t bother him, though.

Foggy almost lets himself consider it for a moment, but shakes away the temptation. “That wouldn’t be wise. I have a job here, and crime really doesn’t take a day off. I know where I'm really needed. And I can't leave Matt alone with all our clients. I'm the charming one, so he'd be screwed.”

“Don’t I know it.” She sighs wistfully. Then sge rationalizes her offer. “You probably wouldn’t like what I’m doing in Spain, anyway.”

“Why? Does it involve your knives?” Foggy teases. She smiles, closing her eyes and not facing him. She melts even further into the leather couch.

“It involves an embassy. You’ll see it in the news, probably.” She traces a finger along Foggy’s arm from beside him. “You’re not going to convince me to stop, either,” she preempts.

“I wasn’t going to try," he tells her honestly. He knows who can't be reasoned with and who can and under what circumstances. He knows the difference between convincing someone and trying to change the core of their being. At a certain point, it's not persuasion, it's control. "Just keep doing what you think is right. I trust you." It feels like a sendoff, and it kind of is, but their relationship has changed, now, and Foggy feels the need to acknowledge it, somehow. "Check back in every now and then, though. You have friends here. You’re always welcome.”

“Thanks, Foggy." Elektra breathes easily around him.

“So when’s your flight?” he asks. He lets himself sink down and rest his head on Elektra’s lap. She lets her hand weave into his hair.

“Tomorrow morning. 6am. I have to leave by 3:30.”

Foggy nods and closes his eyes. “Stay until then?”

“Alright. Just until then, though.” They fall into a comfortable, lazy silence. There are so many things that need to be said, so much air that needs to be cleared. “I’m not going to wait for you, though.” Which is nice to know, because he didn’t want there to be any misgivings about what this is.

“Didn’t expect as much. I won’t either.” Foggy shifts. Everything is light between them, honest. It's a trace of what they could have been years earlier had they taken the time to. Or perhaps they weren't mature enough to see each other back then. Either way, he's grateful for it now. “How do I compare to Matt?” he asks out of sheer curiosity.

Elektra considers this and evidently finds it absolutely risible. “You’re far more accommodating, and he's more experimental. But it's been a while, you'd better ask him. I'm sure he's more than willing to show you.”

Foggy’s heart catches his throat. He can’t be mocked about this. Anything but this. “What?”

“There aren’t a lot of people who talk about their ‘best friends’ after they fuck me, Foggy. In fact, only two people ever have. One of them happens to be you, and I'll give you three guesses as to who the other one might be.”

“Noted," Foggy breathes out in relief. Or something like excitement. He would have to get back to this later.

There's a tone with which she talks about them that's familiar and it occurs to Foggy that they have another longtime college buddy Elektra could reconnect with. "Say, next time you’re here, you should meet this friend of mine. Her name’s Marci. I think you’d like her.”

“Would I?” Elektra asks, amused.

“She’s also accommodating. Got quite a mouth on her.”

“I’ll consider it.” And Elektra does seem to consider it. She looks out the window contemplatively.

Foggy thinks she might be savouring something.

“Ugh, you leave so soon. There’s so much to do now that we’re friends.”

“Or,” she suggests slowly, “we could do one more round and you can sleep in while I leave early in the morning?”

Foggy yawns. “No, we’re doing one more round, then I’m waking up with you and taking you to the airport.”

“Okay, then. Better make it count because I have to leave in two hours.”

Foggy checks the time and curses. “Fuck me,” he laments.

“That’s the idea.”

-

Foggy wakes up to an empty bed at 5:34 in the morning. Meaning he’d missed her go. More to the point, Elektra had let him sleep. Cheesily, she also left a note on his pillow.

“Shame you couldn’t get up. 

Very disappointed in you.

Be back soon. 

-EN”

“Lovely,” Foggy mutters to himself, and flops back onto the bed.

Elektra Natchios, always in the process of leaving. Sometimes, in the process of coming back.

-

A few weeks later, sure as rain, Foggy finds himself scrolling through the news. He comes across a story about an embassy meeting in Spain wherein a man was murdered during a brief recess. Only, shortly after the fact, a bunch of women came forth and alleged years of workplace harassment, and in two cases, an illegitimate child.

There was only one picture in the article. In it, the late congressman is standing on a podium and speaking animatedly with his arms outstretched. There’s a crowd all around him, herded behind steel gates. What looks to be a crowd of activists, reporters, fanatics, and the like are receiving his words to great joy or deep rage.

There’s a woman, right at the front. She would be inconspicuous if Foggy couldn’t recognize her face. The natural light in the photo hits her dead on. The angle of her cheekbones, the set line of her lips, the slick of her dark and heavy hair. She’s in jeans and a blazer, as is the common uniform around her. Around her shoulders is an intricately crocheted green shawl.

-

Karen makes a name for herself with her brilliantly written exposés on the poor working conditions of several international businesses. She starts travelling for her journalism. She seems to like it.

Eventually, Foggy takes Elektra’s advice and asks Matt out to dinner. He says yes.

-

When Elektra comes back, it’s years later. Her hair is shorter, her stride is more measured, and she has earned a nasty scar splitting her right eyebrow in half. 

The offices of Nelson-Murdock (Formerly, Nelson, Murdock, and Page; formerly, Nelson and Murdock) have also changed. It’s bigger, for one. It’s also got nicer windows and office storage that’s slick and chic rather than clunky and inconvenient. It’s a definite growth that both partners are quite proud of.

Elektra walks into the space and folds up her sunglasses. The woman at reception is not Karen, but she’s young, happy, and rosy-cheeked as she calls the partners to the front desk.

“Elektra!” Foggy greets, inviting as always. He opens his arms wide with ample warning before she lets herself be caught up in an all-encompassing embrace.

“Okay, Foggy, that’s enough.” She pats him on the back, precisely twice, and smiles at him. “You look well.”

“As do you.” He shifts his head to see past her. “Matty, it’s Elektra!”

Matt gives a small wave in their direction from behind the glass door of his office.

Foggy turns to the receptionist. “Lonnie, could you cancel our day? She’s an old college friend of ours and it’s been ages since we’ve last seen her.”

The young woman gives him a thumbs up and begins composing some emails.

The sun is high and bright today, the deep and vast blue of the sky forms an auspicious blanket around them in every direction. The warbling city around them is cheerful, and sings to a beautiful tune, though its rhythm is hard to decipher. The three of them find themselves in a recently opened coffee shop half a block away. They sip their lattes and cold brews in companionable silence for a warm moment.

“So what have you been up to?” Foggy asks her.

She takes a deep breath and smiles at the pair of them. “Well,” she starts.

**Author's Note:**

> [ hey im on tumblr ](https://artbymintcookies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
